


Dragged into the Undertow

by Deathstar510



Series: Worlds Apart, Brought Together [2]
Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Athelstan is just a brave and good boy doing his best, Athelstan-centric, Athelstan/Floki/Ragnar is VERY pre-relationship but I'm putting out the groundwork damn it, Canon-Typical Violence, Culture Shock, Floki/Ragnar is established, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, No non-con actually occurs, Religious Conflict, Sexual Content, Slavery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-15
Updated: 2021-02-07
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:15:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27566602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deathstar510/pseuds/Deathstar510
Summary: Before Athelstan ever steps foot in Kattegat, he has a long journey to get there. He tries to make sense of these strange men around him, to varying degrees of success and, in a world intent on drowning him, he learns to swim.
Relationships: Athelstan/Floki/Ragnar Lothbrok, Floki/Ragnar Lothbrok
Series: Worlds Apart, Brought Together [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2096247
Comments: 33
Kudos: 43





	1. Prayers Written in Sand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the burning of Lindisfarne, Athelstan waits to see what will happen to him and his brothers, tries to find his footing, and does something stupidly brave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Specific Content Notes: 
> 
> Appearance of non-con (nothing of the sort is happening but Athelstan very much believes it is)  
> Knife-Play  
> Floki and Ragnar are just kinky and Athelstan is sheltered

It seemed that the slaves were to be the last of the cargo loaded. The northmen had left them mostly unattended, clustered in the sand with wrists bound, apparently certain that no one would be brave enough to try to make a run for it. Their certainty was well earned - neither Athelstan or any of his brothers had any desire to see what further punishment from the pagans might look like, not after watching their brother nearly drowned for his attempted escape by the same man that had cut down Father Cuthbert. Perhaps, if he had lived they would know what to do, how to survive. But he was dead and they’d watched him die and no amount of ‘perhaps’ would ever be enough to bring back his wisdom.

So they sat. And they waited. The cold air started to work its way through Athelstan’s tunic. Around him, several of his brothers prayed, the whispers of Latin winding up to heaven to fall on the ears of a God who, though they’d never had reason to doubt him before, was looking unlikely to save them. Others cried, muffling themselves with their sleeves as best they could so that their captors would not hear.

And Athelstan? Athelstan watched.

The northmen seemed less like demons now that they’d stowed their axes and shields, shouting jokes and playful jabs at each other while they sorted their treasure and loaded it piece by precious, holy piece into their boat. It pained him to watch God’s treasures handled with such carelessness, but if he focused only on their words and actions he could almost think them the same as the many traders he’d seen on mission trips. Rough, hard-worked men with their boisterousness wrapped around a core of strength that often led to the firmest of faiths. He could see the faces of those men on these northmen, but it was no comfort. The smoke that still spiraled from their monastery told him that he could not let his guard down so simply.

Men they may be, but men were so often worse than demons.

Athelstan wanted to shut his eyes and ears to them, retreat into himself and pray like his brothers. But he was the only one who spoke the pagans’ language, and who could listen and communicate to their benefit. It was his responsibility to watch, to listen, and to protect as much as he could. He may have failed to keep their Gospels hidden away, but he would not fail the few brothers he had left to him.

At the very least, in the short time he’d listened, he’d managed to deduce the pecking order, of sorts. The vicious one - for Athelstan could think of him as nothing else - had declared them equals during his bid for Athelstan’s death, and it was true, to a point. They worked together as one, and seemed to be intending to split their shares equally. 

That did not mean there was not a leader. The man who’d pulled him from hiding, who’d saved his life for reasons Athelstan still couldn’t quite piece together, he held a special place in the crew’s esteem, despite the vicious one’s arguments. They were equal but, whether by title or simply being the most powerful presence in the room, the others deferred to him, or were made to defer.

Fittingly then, rather than help load the boats, he stood to the side with his eyes cast out to the sea to watch the horizon. A satisfied smile spread across his face, his eyes seeming to glow with some inner light that Athelstan could see even from so far away. Only mere seconds passed before the northman seemed to feel the gaze on him, and he tore his eyes from the sea to lock onto Athelstan’s, capturing him again with the eye contact. That light seemed to intensify, burning into him until he had to jerk his head away to break away from it.

It left him with little to look at, however, other than the smoke rising from his now devastated home, and the man who still stood staring back at it with a grin on his face. This one had a name; Athelstan had heard their leader call for him several times. Floki. Taller and thinner than the others, with painted, wild eyes and a sharp laugh that rang through the air like some devil’s hymn. Athelstan didn’t know what to make of this one - he didn’t help load the treasure either, but he commanded no special attention besides that of their leader, whose side he went to every time he was called, quick as a favored hound. The rest of the time he seemed content to entertain himself away from the others, drawing patterns in the sand or whispering snatches of song or, most often, simply watching the twirl of smoke through the air with that satisfied look.

Perhaps he’d been the one to set it - no, certainly he was, Athelstan felt the truth of it as soon as he thought it. He may not have seen this one kill any of his brothers, but he was certainly the one to set fire to their home, to God’s home. Athelstan set his jaw and told himself not to trust this one either.

“Floki!” came the call again, and the man paused where he was, tilting his head towards the summons. Floki’s hesitation lasted only that one moment before he swiftly turned on his heel in a fluid motion and went back to his leader’s side. Athelstan watched him go; each time he’d been called before had been for something small and inconsequential, some question or joke, but he listened attentively all the same. He would not miss anything that could help his brothers survive the tribulations ahead, even if it would not be enough to grant them freedom.

For the first time, he had to strain to hear them; the leader had lowered his voice for once as Floki drew in close to him, leaning in as if what he had to say were a secret. But as low as his voice dropped, it was certainly no whisper, and it carried just enough for Athelstan to catch. “Do you remember my promise, if this raid went well?”

Floki giggled again, one hand coming up to his mouth so he could chew at a thumbnail. He glanced at the crew and their treasures, then back to the clustered monks. His response was quieter than Ragnar’s and Athelstan didn’t quite catch it, but when they looked together from the treasures to the clustered monks, their smiles matched. The raid had gone very well indeed. Athelstan’s stomach twisted at the reminder that their suffering was the northmen’s success.

The leader reached out a hand and caught Floki around the narrow waist, grabbing hold of the knife that rested in the small of his back like a handle and using it to pull him close. For a moment, Athelstan didn’t know what was happening, and he watched intently.

It hit him a second later, when their bodies pressed together at the hips. Athelstan’s mouth dropped open briefly, then clicked closed again. But before he could catch up to think that, perhaps, this was not something he wanted to witness, the tone changed. The hand at Floki’s back tightened again around the knife but, rather than pulling him closer, it jerked the blade from its sheath. The leader’s free hand came up to Floki’s shoulder and roughly spun him before wrapping around to trap him, thin back pressed to broad chest.

The knife dug into Floki’s neck and Athelstan’s own throat went painfully dry.

If he hadn’t known what to do before, he certainly didn’t know now - this was Ragnar’s own man, by all indications loyal, it made no _sense_. The northmen were violent, cruel to their captives, but this… this couldn’t be acceptable. Not knowing what else to do, he looked to the crew. They had to have seen this or heard the sharp sound Floki had made when he was grabbed, and Athelstan stared them down, desperate for intervention.

None of them flinched. Few of them even looked up at the noise, and those that did simply rolled their eyes and went back to their work, as if the only thing wrong with any of this was that they had to see it happen. No one moved to stop it, no one even looked concerned. Athelstan’s heart beat heavily in his chest.

Floki was making noises again, short squeaks and gasps, held firmly in place by the knife. The leader’s mouth had made its way to his ear, down his throat, his shoulder, and any time he twitched the knife dug further into his skin. When the hand across his chest loosened and started to wander lower down Floki’s stomach, Athelstan closed his eyes and turned his head away.

This was the man who burned their home, who was helping to enslave him and his brothers. He reminded himself of that, tried to drown out everything around him with that one thought.

This was nothing compared to what would happen to his brothers at the hands of these northmen.

This was…

This was wrong.

Athelstan opened his eyes with a gasp. This was wrong, this couldn’t happen, not to anyone, not even to a man such as him. Not if Athelstan could help it.

Before he truly had a chance to think about it, to talk himself out of it, Athelstan found his body standing on its own, feet planted in the sand, and a bracing breath sucked into his lungs. It came out as a shout too big for his body, one that shook his very bones and made his blood pulse through his ears.

_“Stop!”_

And, for a moment, everything did. The monstrous action in front of him, loading the boat, the prayers and sobs of his brothers, everything but the wind and the waves stilled abruptly, as if all of the living world had paused on the strength of his shouted command. Athelstan’s chest heaved, first with the lingering exhilaration, then with increasing panic when that wore away and left him only with the realization of what he’d done and what it could cost him.

His life had been spared once, there was no guarantee it would happen again.

The northman unfolded himself from Floki like a wolf raising its head from a bloody feast. The hand with the knife fell loosely to his side, dangling from his fingers, and Athelstan could see a thin streak of blood left behind on Floki’s long throat. He expected him to bolt, or make a grab at the knife held so casually in his attacker’s hand, now that his attention was diverted.

He expected everything but what happened, which was Floki simply tilting his head like a curious cat offered a particularly interesting toy. Athelstan stared at him with wide eyes, still taking in deep breaths. Their gazes met, and where the leader’s held a burning fire within them, bright and hot, Floki’s stare was like a solid weight shoved straight through him, a needle that pinned him in place, unable to move. At least until the heavy footsteps of the approaching northman stopped before him.

Athelstan’s head jerked as he refocused on the impending threat, his bound wrists coming up before him defensively. He stepped back, closed his eyes, braced himself for the knife strike he was sure was coming, or the heavy blow from the northman’s fist. None came. When only silence stretched between them, he cautiously opened his eyes to meet the leader’s amused gaze and half smile.

“Is there a problem, priest?” The question was light, teasing, and something about it made a blush rise unbidden to Athelstan’s cheeks. Those bright blue eyes were locked on him again, and going from the sharp press of Floki’s stare back to the burn was making him squirm. “I’d hate to think you upset before even getting on the boat, we’ve a long voyage ahead and not much room to avoid each other.” The half smile was a grin now, full of smug amusement.

He paused then, clearly expecting a response, and Athelstan straightened up, cleared his throat. “You were hurting him,” he said, slowly, the words needing time to come to his tongue. He knew the language, but it was not often he was called upon to use it. “You were going to…” He didn’t know the word for what he needed to say, not in their language. As he searched, the leader kept his gaze steadily on him, one eyebrow slowly raising. He didn’t interrupt though, letting Athelstan finally spit out, “You were forcing him. I can’t allow that to happen, not to anyone.”

It appeared there was nothing to be said to that. The northman blinked a handful of times, as if waiting to see if Athelstan were intending to say more. Then, rather than respond, he simply laughed, loudly, and his crew laughed with him - and one laugh in particular caught Athelstan’s ear. Floki had come back to his leader’s side, long limbs relaxed and throat still dripping blood.

As Athelstan watched, he wrapped his arms around his leader’s shoulders, head dropping comfortably down beside his. The hand that had so recently held a knife to his throat now came up to scratch affectionately through his thin and patchy hair. Both of their stares now weighed on Athelstan’s shoulders, and he felt suddenly like he couldn’t breathe.

He opened his mouth again. Closed it, feeling just as lost as the first time when he saw the two men pressing themselves close together. Looked from one face to the other, both watching him like he’d just told a joke. As if what he’d just seen hadn’t happened, and it were all just a trick played on him by his own mind. “I don’t-”

“Not that I can’t appreciate it, priest.” The words came smoothly and calm now from the leader’s mouth, though his tone still held its hint of laughter. “But I assure you, nothing is happening here that you need to concern yourself with.”

Floki followed with a reedy giggle, practically nuzzling into the side of his leader’s neck when he spoke. “A lot of fuss for a little knife.” He raised one hand and the knife was swiftly passed back to him, then lazily slid into its sheath in a smooth motion. Rather than bring his arm back up to its former place around his leader’s shoulders, he simply let his hand rest on his own belt. “And a lot of fire for a little priest.”

Finally, he unwound himself fully from the other man, stepping out from behind him, then forward - and Athelstan had noted his height before, but now he truly felt it. Floki towered over him, and he had to crane his neck back to look up at him, though he didn’t quite make eye contact. Was he to be killed now for his outburst? Beaten by the very man he’d so unwisely decided he must protect?

To his surprise, neither came. Only Floki’s curious and piercing stare and then, unexpectedly, his long fingers on the top of his head. They ruffled through Athelstan’s hair like he was praising a dog, pausing only once to prod at his tonsure for a few brief seconds before continuing. “You’re a fierce one,” Floki said finally, voice slow. “That’s good. I see what Ragnar likes about you.”

Then he began to push down with his palm against the top of Athelstan’s head, lightly but firmly, until he’d urged him to sit back down in the sand. He got another ruffle for obeying. “Stay here though. Ragnar is right, there’s a long journey ahead, and you will need that fire of yours to keep yourself warm.”

One more pat on the head and he turned away again, back to his leader - Ragnar, apparently. Leaning in, he whispered something to him, something Athelstan didn’t hear and likely wouldn’t be able to understand if he did, not with the confusion still buzzing through his head like it had been suddenly filled with a bee’s nest.

Ragnar’s response though, that did break through. “Load up the slaves!” His arm found its way around Floki’s waist again, pulling him close until no space remained between them, shooting him a wicked grin. “But take your time. I’ve got a last bit of business with Floki, here.”

“You’ve always got business with Floki,” someone grumbled, then grabbed the rope around Athelstan’s neck and pulled. The motion hauled Athelstan to his feet and forward, dragging him step by step towards the waiting ship and whatever horrors awaited across the sea.

Behind him, carried on the wind, Floki’s giggling followed him the entire way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not certain how many chapters these will be - I want to explore several ideas for the long ride back to Kattegat though, so we'll see how much content I can come up with featuring several men on one very small boat.
> 
> Side note, but I very much ship Floki/Ragnar/Athelstan so while they will not reach that point in the story, if you think an interaction sounds shippy that's because it is.


	2. Washed Up and Drowning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Athelstan deals with Rollo's misplaced rage and takes one last look at the world he grew up in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Specific Content Notes:
> 
> None

The vicious one had been right about one thing. They truly did have no room left on the boat.

It had seemed too small to carry even the men that it had come with, twenty by Athelstan’s count, and now that they had filled it with their plunder it seemed smaller still. Both stern and bow were filled with men, packed together with little room between them while they rested, and the monastery’s treasures sat piled up around and practically on top of them. The oars lining both sides and the benches for their rowers took up most of the remaining space, leaving only a slim patch around the mast to walk upon. It was this tiny scrap of empty deck that he and his brothers were expected to gather in, and that was where their problems started.

Brother Cenwulf, still drenched from his near drowning, had fit well enough, and they had loaded him first to discourage him from any further attempts at running away. Brother Dunstan next, another easy fit, but that left three still standing on the sand, and unfortunate Brother Ealdwine in the vicious one’s grasp, wriggling as the man tried to force him to sit in a space too cramped to be comfortable. When Ealdwine resisted, the man cursed under his breath before shoving him violently down, his face bouncing hard off the planks with a pitiable yelp.

“I told Ragnar we should have killed a few more of you,” the man growled to no one in particular, then delivered a harsh kick to Ealdwine’s hip, making him scramble to the mast and huddle in on himself, comfort long forgotten in the face of the promise of pain. The vicious one turned, and his eyes locked onto Athelstan’s. What his stare lacked in Ragnar’s fire or Floki’s sharpness, it made up for with the sheer distaste that filled it, as if Athelstan were merely some disgusting thing layered onto his boot. The man raised a hand, pointed at him, and it felt like a threat all on its own. “You.”

Athelstan’s two remaining brothers backed away from him almost immediately, and he couldn’t even blame them for it. He might have done the same, if he were them. But he wasn’t some unlucky bystander, he was the target of that unwavering stare, and all he could think to do when facing it down was stand up just a little bit straighter.

The man came towards him, and Athelstan fought the urge to back away like his brothers, sure that to do so would only make whatever came next worse. A hand grabbed his collar, yanked him off balance. “My brother says you speak our language.”

Brother. He and Ragnar had called each other that before, when they were arguing over Athelstan’s living or dying as if he weren’t in the room to hear it. He had not known at the time if they meant brothers by blood or brothers in arms, but he had heard the word from no others since, so he would have to assume the former. This then was Ragnar’s blood brother. He bore very little resemblance, in looks or in spirit, and Athelstan knew he would get none of the mercy that Ragnar had extended him here.

Athelstan cleared his throat, forced his voice steady. “I do, yes.”

“Then translate this.” He jerked again at Athelstan’s collar, shaking him. “If you slaves can’t figure out how to fit yourselves into the boat, and quickly, I’ll start drowning you, one by one, until you do fit.” The man’s other hand wrapped tight around Athelstan’s arm, squeezing until it hurt, but Athelstan refused to make a noise of pain. “Tell them that, priest.”

This time, there wasn’t a force in the world that could keep his voice steady as he translated, and soon his brothers all shook too. When the man stepped aside to allow entrance, they scrambled aboard, wasting no time in bunching themselves together as tightly as they could. Athelstan would have followed, but the restraining hands had not released him, so he did not dare move.

The man pulled him forward by the arm, nearly into his chest, and released his collar to take hold of his chin instead. Athelstan’s instinct told him to bow his head, but when his chin was instead tugged uncomfortably up, he merely averted his eyes. Ragnar and Floki had not punished him for looking them in the face, but he knew that doing so here would be a painful mistake. Regardless of his careful compliance, the fingers tightened. He would have bruises, if he survived this.

“What does he want with you, priest?” The question came out low, and for a moment, Athelstan wondered if it was even meant for his ears. “Why does he not let me kill you like the rest?”

And oh, how Athelstan would have liked to know the answer to that himself. What few ideas he could bring to mind chilled his blood like ice water, but the unknown ran even colder. When he didn’t reply, he was shaken again. “I don’t know,” he said finally, voice still coming out cracked and weak. He wished for just an ounce of the strength he’d had when shouting at Ragnar not so long ago. “He did not say.” A huff of annoyed breath and he was finally freed, though he’d been held so tightly that it still felt as if the man’s fingers were digging into his skin.

“You are not the first stray he’s brought home,” the man said dismissively. “But you are weak. I doubt you will last as long.” He let Athelstan by, but as soon as he tried to pass a solid hand landed square in the middle of his back, sending Athelstan stumbling forward and nearly to his knees. Before another blow could land upon him, the call came.

“Terrorizing the slaves, Rollo?” Ragnar. Relief filled his chest before Athelstan could stop it, followed by anger at himself for even daring to feel comfort at the presence of their captor.

When next a hand touched him, it was Ragnar’s, firm and supportive on his shoulder, steadying him in place. Athelstan could have looked up into Ragnar’s eyes without fear of punishment, but still he kept them lowered to the ground. It was best not to let himself get too familiar; Ragnar was as much a northman as his brother.

The vicious one - Rollo - only seemed to pay half a mind to the question. “Loading the slaves, just like you asked before running off to your… business. It’s not my fault if this one is slow. I told you we should have killed him already.”

“And I told you that I forbid it.” The hand squeezed, reassuring and careful, and Athelstan’s guilt missed the pain of Rollo’s fingers. They came with less conflict for his already overloaded mind. “I won’t hear anything more about killing him. You’ve already put five slaves on the boat, we can fit a sixth.”

Neither of them moved for a moment, tension hanging heavy between the two brothers, and Athelstan could have suffocated from the weight. Rollo bent first, turning his head away and shaking it. He focused his attention on Athelstan’s brothers instead, fearfully huddled around the mast. He kicked Brother Cenwulf with a heavy boot, pushing him over and creating a fraction of room. “There. Space for your precious slave, unless you would rather he ride in your lap the whole way home?”

Another rush of cold water down Athelstan’s spine, and Ragnar seemed to notice his shivering, for his hand soon slipped away. It paused only once, at his back, to gently push him forward. “Not necessary. Go sit, priest.”

Athelstan’s body seemed far away as he did what he was told, walking to the mast like it was a gallows and pressing his back to it, sinking down slowly into the alloted space. He curled his knees up to his chest, brought his wrists tightly in between, and tried not to let himself tremor as he lowered his head. Curls fell in front of his eyes, but he did not let himself lose focus.

The northmen could not see it, and his brothers were in no state to notice, but even now he watched and he listened.

Rollo paced, agitated even with all of their cargo packed away on the boat and most of the men in position. He cast his eyes out to the beach, scanning slowly, and Athelstan tried to follow his gaze. “Is Floki on his way back, yet?”

“In his own time, you know how he is.” Ragnar seemed unconcerned by the absence, as if this were a common thing. Perhaps it was, from what Athelstan had seen of Floki, he was hardly someone that would hold still for very long. “I told him we would be leaving soon, he will make his way back here eventually. Probably wanted to set a few more fires before we left.”

“Eventually.” Rollo chuckled without mirth and shook his head, turning to Ragnar. “He knows we are not here to play games. Why would you bring him if he didn’t intend to listen? He has not killed anyone since we’ve been here, nor found anything important. Tell me it was not just because you couldn’t go without _company_ for one trip.”

“It’s his boat,” Ragnar said in a clipped tone that clearly meant he considered the conversation done. He settled himself into place, lounged at the stern end of the boat, seemingly uncaring about his brother’s continued frustration.

Rollo looked back over his shoulder at Athelstan then, lip curled in a snarl, and it sent a shudder through him to be stared down with such hatred. This man would throw him into the sea and hold him under until he stopped kicking given the chance, and the only permission he would need would be Ragnar’s. “Twice now you dismiss me, brother. First for the slave, and now with this. Your promise that we were equals grows thinner by the hour.”

He stalked away then, past the mast and the miserable masses surrounding it, and Athelstan braced himself for a kick that never came. Apparently, even angry, Rollo was not so unwise as to risk upsetting his brother further by damaging him.

Brotherly argument done, Ragnar leaned back, hands folded behind his head, and conversation sparked through the rest of the men. Athelstan had little left to do but wait as time stretched on. Some of the men around him grew restless, snappish, when Floki failed to return. Ragnar hardly seemed to care, though, staying relaxed in his seat and watching like a king surveying his court. His eyes seemed to most often rest upon Athelstan, and each time that burning blue swept up and down his form, feeling as solid as his hands had been, Ragnar’s lips quirked into the smallest, satisfied smile. It sent a feeling he couldn’t quite identify through his stomach, though part of it was certainly fear. Athelstan only wished he knew how to escape it.

He had questions. He had always had questions, from when he was a child first learning the teachings of the church to when he was a teenager and should have long since learned to stop asking. And Ragnar looked at him as if he had all of the answers, but would not give them up for free.

Athelstan did not know that he wanted to hear the price.

By the time Floki finally returned to the boat it felt like hours had passed, but it must have been much less for the sun had hardly moved. The lanky man clambered noisily onto the boat, already giggling and chattering too quickly for Athelstan to understand, and he hit the deck with a solid thud. It sounded as if it would hurt, but perhaps Floki simply didn’t feel pain as most men did, for he seemed as undeterred by that as he had been by the cut Ragnar left on his throat.

He had a second one now, surrounded by purpling marks all along the side of his neck, along with a slowly scabbing over line along his collarbone that Athelstan traced with his eyes until it disappeared under his clothing. Athelstan couldn’t help but wonder what others might lay beneath that he could not see. It frightened him - if this was what the northmen did to each other, apparently entirely willingly, what horrors would they unleash upon their captives before this was done?

If Floki noticed his gaze, he certainly didn’t care, and his attention was quickly focused entirely upon Ragnar, who waved him over with a faint smile. “About time you came back - what had you gone so long?”

Floki giggled. “Trees speak with different words in different lands,” he said, as if he were speaking any sort of sense. “And they scream differently when they burn. I wanted to hear how Christian trees scream, but there’s nothing here but grass. Burns well enough, but it does it quietly.”

Seemingly content that he had explained himself, Floki wasted no time scrambling up behind Ragnar, practically coiling his long body around the figurehead as he settled himself to watch the last of the fire they’d left burning. Ragnar brought his hand up to lightly brush the backs of his fingers against one long leg before sitting upright.

“Looks as if we have everyone present and accounted for. Cargo is loaded, slaves are settled…” Ragnar’s eyes swept again to Athelstan and his smirk grew into a wide smile. “Let’s go home.”

Athelstan swallowed hard and looked back to the burning monastery, the last he would likely ever see of his lifelong home. The boat lurched forward with the first powerful stroke of the oars, and the whole thing shook in a way that Athelstan’s stomach couldn’t quite handle, making it twist around nothing. He found himself with the petty wish that he’d remembered to eat something that morning. Who knew how long they would be on this boat, if they would be fed, or even where their destination would be.

One thing was certain, though. Whatever Ragnar said, whatever he wanted Athelstan to believe, wherever they were going would never be home.


	3. The Wrong Kind of Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The monks are fed and the tensions are heightened. Athelstan learns that while he may have some potential allies on the boat, there are potential enemies as well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Specific Content Notes:
> 
> Potential eating disorder triggers (self induced starvation)  
> Vomiting  
> Casual homophobic remarks

Before long, it felt as if Athelstan’s empty stomach were screaming at him and by morning, as the boat fell into relative quiet, that scream was all that he could seem to hear.

Most of the men not occupied with rowing were still asleep, some pressed tight together under shared blankets, others sitting up alone with their backs to the side of the boat. Rollo was one of these, his head bowed in rest, and the other men seemed to give him as wide a berth as the close quarters allowed. Athelstan never watched him for long, but with how dangerous the man could easily be, he refused to let himself lose track of him.

At the stern, Ragnar sat awake. Athelstan didn’t know if he’d even slept. He didn’t seem a man to sleep much, almost pulsing with an energy that couldn’t be quieted, and even lounged he didn’t seem to be resting. Floki lay at his side though, certainly asleep, curled into a loose ball on a pile of tangled rope that he seemed to have arranged into a makeshift bed. One of Ragnar’s hands rested at his head, toying with his hair. The cold wind must have dampened it, for the man seemed to be entertaining himself by styling the sparse strands into spikes and clumps, twisting it between his fingers.

It was quieter than he expected a ship of heathens to be, the only sounds coming from the exertions of the rowers still packed tight around them to work the oars and the rushing of the water. So when his stomach growled, loudly, all he could feel was the terror that they would hear and punish him for it. Athelstan pulled his legs up further to his chest, leaned low to try to muffle himself, and prayed to go unnoticed.

His fear of being heard, however, was apparently not shared by his brothers.

“Do you think they’ll feed us? How long can we last, if they don’t?” Brother Ealdwine’s voice shook as only a young man’s could. He’d spent the trip so far shoved up against Athelstan’s side as close as he could get, body trembling and eyes darting. His fears were reasonable. Ealdwine was thin, weak to the cold and with little weight on him to lose if they were expected to go days without eating.

No one answered him at first, and it seemed to drive the young monk further into his panic. He swallowed nervously and fidgeted with his tied wrists, then looked to Athelstan for answers, seeming near tears. Athelstan had always been the one that the youngest monks looked up to, being older and wiser but not so old that he seemed distant and unreachable. He’d long given comfort and knowledge where he could to those younger than him, few as they were, and it pained him to look around at his brothers and realize that, of those young ones, only Ealdwine had been spared.

If Ealdwine was his only younger brother left, then he even more owed him the few shreds of comfort he could give, no matter the fear of his captors. He kept his voice as low as he could make it, leaning in to speak. “They have said that they mean to sell us-” Ealdwine cut him off with a hiccuping whine of fear, breath quickening until Athelstan gave him the slight nudge of his shoulder. He let the boy calm himself before continuing. “I know you’re frightened, but if they wish to sell us it means they will want to keep us alive. I don’t know when they will feed us, but I’m certain they will.”

The reassurance seemed to soothe the boy, as much as it could when they were still off to an uncertain fate. He stopped whimpering at least. Athelstan only prayed that the northmen wouldn’t make a liar of him.

“We shouldn’t take whatever they offer us,” came the roughened voice from his other side. Cenwulf was shivering too, but from cold rather than fear, and he sounded as if he would trail off into hacking coughs at any moment. They were all damp and chilled, but Cenwulf had the worst of it. He remained drenched to the bone from Rollo’s vicious drowning attempt, and he had no hope of drying himself and no way to keep warm. Still, his voice was firm when he continued. “They’re demons. Monsters soaked in sin. You’ve seen what they’ve done to his house, to his servants. To _each other._ Eating their food would be an insult to God.”

He said nothing that Athelstan didn’t already know. These were murderers and kidnappers, and they seemed to sin gleefully and without shame. He thought of Floki and Ragnar pressing their bodies together without a care to who saw, and the shining red edge of Rollo’s axe, stained with the blood of his brothers. Images straight from Father Cuthbert’s darkest sermons. Sinners they were, but they were also their only hope to survive just now. It shamed him to think it, though, and Athelstan couldn’t bring himself to look at Cenwulf when he replied. “Would it be better that we starved?”

Cenwulf only shook his head. “It would be better that we give ourselves to the Lord, and trust in him as we should. If we die here, it is for Him, and that should be enough.”

His voice rose steadily through the sentence and Athelstan winced at it, nervously looking up at the men surrounding them. Surely they were heard now, but most seemed content to ignore them and their foreign Saxon language. They spoke, but only to each other as they rowed, idle conversations that layered over each other and went by so fast that Athelstan couldn’t understand them.

One though had apparently caught wind of them and found them curious enough to focus on. His attention was firmly on them now, though he hadn’t paused in his work at the oar. This was one of the calmer ones, Leif if Athelstan had caught his name right. He seemed a steady man, and his stare no less so, and it froze Athelstan in place to catch sight of it. His brothers must have felt his tension, for they soon quieted, too. Ealdwine pushed himself further into his side.

Leif looked them over, nothing on his face but a vague sort of curiosity, like a man might look at an unfamiliar animal found in his store rooms. Or, at least, when his eyes came to rest on Athelstan he felt like a small creature caught under the sight of a potential predator, even if Leif lacked the intensity he’d found in Ragnar or Floki’s gazes. 

“What are you whispering about, priest?” Leif asked, and Athelstan’s mind spun, looking for words to say. 

A part of him wanted to lie and he couldn’t even say why, for he knew he would not be able to come up with something convincing and they would only be angrier that he had not been truthful. Surely hunger was no cause for punishment, and if it was making noise that got them in trouble, then it wouldn’t matter what he had to say. Hopefully, the truth would be enough. “They are hungry. None of us had eaten our first meal before you came, and it has been some time since we departed.”

He half expected to be laughed at, now that he’d given voice to it. They were to be slaves, sold as soon as they reached land, perhaps it was naive of him to think that they would be worthy of being fed. Perhaps he had led Ealdwine wrong after all, a prospect that seemed worse than any starvation he could endure himself. The anxiety only grew the longer Leif quietly watched him and, eventually, his eyes dropped of their own accord, focused on the wooden boards of the boat’s deck.

When Leif did finally speak, it wasn’t to him. Instead, he called out Ragnar’s name towards the stern and earned a lazy glance up from the man. Ragnar watched and waited and never stopped his idle toying with Floki’s hair like he was stroking a cat. Leif jerked his head towards Athelstan. “The slaves need to eat. Yours says he’s hungry.”

Athelstan’s face flushed a bright red. Yours. Was that what he was? Ragnar’s? Ragnar certainly looked at him as if he were his, and Athelstan wasn’t sure how to react to it. He thought of Ragnar’s hand on Floki’s back, pulling him close, and shivered. Is that what Ragnar wanted from him? He feared finding out almost as much as he feared remaining in the dark.

Ragnar sat up in his seat, still watching Athelstan with that amused smile on his face. The hand that had been stroking through Floki’s hair turned to tugging, gentle at first and then harder when that failed to get a reaction. On the third firm tug, Floki jerked awake and startled, sitting up with the rope he’d been sleeping on tangled around his long limbs. He shook his head like a dog trying to dry itself, brought one hand up to rub at the spikes that Ragnar had formed his hair into. When Ragnar laughed at him, he brought his fingers up and flicked them, sending drops of water into the man’s face that only made him laugh harder. Ragnar patted a heavy hand onto Floki’s back. “Go make yourself useful, the slaves are hungry.” Floki didn’t move immediately, only sat and waited as if pending some further instruction. Ragnar sighed and directly pointed at one of several sacks beside him. “In there. Bread. Feed them that.”

“Hardly making myself useful, Ragnar.” Floki giggled and snatched the sack to look inside of it. “Why not just starve them if all we’re giving them is bread?” Ragnar made to take the sack back and Floki pulled it out of his reach. “I will feed it to them. But tomorrow we feed them some of the fish, they’ll need the energy to make it back to Kattegat alive.” 

“Alright, alright, fish.” Ragnar crossed his arms over his chest and settled back into his seat, watching Floki with a fond smirk on his face. “Anything else they will need, as you are apparently the expert on such matters, now?”

It was said as a joke, but Floki did pause and seem to be considering it. He looked back to the monks, at Athelstan in particular, and Athelstan looked away before they could make eye contact. Floki made a considering noise, and seemed to be unable to stop fidgeting as he thought. “Bread and fish should be enough to maintain them until we dock. We will want to make sure they get to move on occasion, crunch them up like that for the whole trip and they’ll end up too cramped to stand. No one will buy a slave that looks like he can’t work.”

He fell silent again, tapping his fingers against the bag. For a moment he looked much less like a demon and much more like a curious child, presented with a new puzzle to figure out. His face twisted up briefly as he considered, then relaxed into a cheerful smile. “That will probably be everything. Until we dock, in any case.”

Ragnar nodded, and looked as if he were internalizing the information. He can’t have done this often then, if the simple matter of keeping prisoners alive was so unfamiliar to him. Athelstan wasn’t sure if that made him feel better or worse.

Content that he’d said his piece, Floki approached them with a bounce in his step, undeterred by the rock of the boat or the occasional elbow stabbed out into his path from the rowers. He near collapsed when he reached them, landing cross legged with a heavy sound and the bag resting in his lap. Even sitting he seemed far too tall and Athelstan felt tiny next to him. 

Brother Auden, the oldest of them, was the first to speak up. He leaned over Ealdwine and made a short noise to draw Athelstan’s attention. Athelstan looked to him and his eyes traced over the dark bruise that swept up one side of the old man’s face, the reward for moving too slowly when the northmen gave him an order. 

Auden nodded to Floki. “What is he doing, then?” he asked, voice low and quiet. Floki wouldn’t be able to understand the words if he heard them, but Athelstan couldn’t blame Auden for his caution. After being shoved to the ground for the crime of being old and slow, he would have little reason to want to draw attention to himself if he could help it.

Athelstan explained in similarly hushed tones, and by the time he glanced back up, Floki had stopped fiddling with the bag and started watching him intently with that piercing stare of his. Athelstan wanted to lean away from him, but with brothers on either side of him and the mast to his back, there was nowhere to go. So he straightened up, breathed in a careful breath, and let himself stare back. A minute of breathless eye contact and Floki grinned wide, seemingly satisfied by whatever he’d seen, and looked away. He reached into the bag and came up with bread in hand. It looked stale, and when he broke it in half with an audible crunch, crumbs scattered all over his shirt and lap. As dry as it looked then, but they were in no position to be picky with their food.

Without warning, Floki tossed half the loaf to Auden, and the man let out a startled squawk and cringed away from it. It bounced off the side of his head - luckily not the bruised one - and into Ealdwine’s lap, and Floki cackled, his shoulders shaking. “Nervous little men.” He reached out with the other half of the loaf still in his hand and tapped it onto Athelstan’s chest. “Tell them that there’s nothing to be so afraid of, priest. There will not be much until we reach Kattegat, but food is food.”

That name again. Kattegat. Their destination apparently. Athelstan stored the name away in his head. He could possibly ask for more information on it, Floki’s tone was friendly enough, nearly out of place for the situation. He spoke to them as if he were just another odd traveler and they his companions for the night. It was possible he’d actually be willing to answer Athelstan’s questions. But, more important than where they were going was where they were right now. “…They are worried about much more than food,” Athelstan said cautiously, testing the waters of Floki’s willingness to talk. “They want to know what will become of them. Of us.”

“Well there’s no telling about that,” Floki said, unhelpful but apparently quite bluntly honest. He broke several more pieces of bread off, and this time he actually reached out to hand them to each of them in turn. Half a loaf each, dropped into their laps. “But then none of us truly know what will become of us, do we? It is the gods that know of our fate, and we only know what they share.”

Ingrained words of protest nearly came to his lips, well tread and fully formed without his needing to think about them. Words about the one God, the true God, but Athelstan bit them back at the last moment. Christ forgive him, but he would not endanger them all by speaking up where he shouldn’t. Floki seemed calm enough now, but the northmen were unpredictable and Athelstan could not say for sure that arguing against their false gods wouldn’t lead to them all being put to death like those back at the monastery. The thought of his remaining brothers cut down one by one, bodies thrown into the water, that was more than enough to keep him quiet. Even when his silence felt as if it would damn him, at least he knew it would protect his brothers.

If Floki noticed his internal conflict, he didn’t show it. Soon enough, Athelstan’s own ration was given to him, pressed into his bound hands rather than dropped into his lap. It took him a moment to realize he’d been handed more than the others, a full loaf rather than half of one. He blinked at it, then up to Floki who simply giggled and moved on. Perhaps this was some sort of gratitude for his efforts to call Ragnar away from him, unnecessary as it had been. Or perhaps Floki simply, for whatever unexplained reason, liked him. It was hard to tell and Floki seemed uninterested in explaining.

Cenwulf was last to be fed, and Athelstan watched him nervously. He had sworn before God not to eat anything given to them, and it seemed he was intent on keeping that promise. With one bitter stare at Floki, Cenwulf turned over onto his side, curling his entire body away and presenting his back to the man. He pressed his cheek to the mast and sat in silence.

Floki blinked. “…What is he doing?” He reached out with the bread and prodded Cenwulf on the shoulder, gently at first and then more aggressively. “Tell him to stop.”

“He does not wish to eat,” Athelstan said quietly. His hands tightened around the bread that suddenly felt like a sin to even be holding. “He doesn’t believe God wishes us to eat your food, because of what you’ve done.” He kept his voice level to keep the last part from sounding too much like an accusation.

“Tell him that’s stupid and he should take what he’s given.” Floki had now started shoving the bread against what little of Cenwulf’s cheek he could reach. Crumbs were breaking off, falling over Cenwulf’s robe, and each touch of the bread made him wince like it was somehow painful to even feel the northern food on his skin. “Face me, you foolish thing. I could force you to eat.”

Cenwulf flinched and Athelstan flinched with him. His tone stayed steady though, even if his body could not. “Please don’t.” Floki paused and looked back to him. “He has sworn his oath before God, please do not ask him to break it. He thinks it would be unholy to eat.”

Floki tilted his head. “And you don’t agree?”

“I do not.” He felt bile burn at the back of his throat and swallowed heavily, trying to push down the feelings of guilt that he was not intending to starve alongside his brother. “But he believes it. An oath to God is more valuable than our lives.”

At the very least, Floki ceased his pestering. He sat back slowly, and continued watching Athelstan, but with a lazy stare this time rather than the wide eyed piercing look from before. Now that he wasn’t pinned by the intensity of them, Athelstan could see smearing at the edges of his eyes, the paint wet and running from the sea spray, and the faint remnants on his cheeks where it had been wiped away entirely. A strange man, in thought and appearance both. Athelstan couldn’t tear his eyes off of him.

Floki blinked first and shrugged. “Very well then, I suppose. Men only get one death each, it’s better that it’s for something he believes in.” He brought the bread meant for Cenwulf up to his own mouth, tearing half of it off with his teeth and swallowing after only barely chewing it. “If he changes his mind, there will be fish tomorrow. It’s better if he doesn’t die.”

“You care if we survive?” Certainly they were being fed, but they were still intended to be sold as slaves. It hardly seemed that their lives would be that valuable, outside of the coin that they could provide.

Another shrug, another bite of bread wolfed down. Floki talked with his mouth full, and it made his words hard to understand but Athelstan pieced together enough of it to make out, “If we wanted you dead, you’d already be dead.” He swallowed the food down and the rest came out clearer. “So eat. It will keep your fire burning.”

His fire. It was not the first time Floki had mentioned it. Athelstan didn’t feel as if there were any fire in him, especially not now, when everything on the boat was cold and damp. But Floki seemed quite convinced it was there, and even if he was wrong it still seemed easier not to argue with him.

Beside him, his brothers ate - the ones that would eat, in any case - and it seemed there was little left for him to do but follow them. Athelstan brought the bread tentatively to his lips and took a careful bite. It was dry and seemed impossibly dense, his jaw hurt to even chew it, and he couldn’t help but wonder how Floki survived swallowing his bites nearly whole.

He was not to be so lucky. Perhaps it was the stress of the whole day, or the rock of the boat, or simply the heaviness of the bread, but as soon as he swallowed his stomach revolted against him. It twisted painfully and he gagged, and Floki let out a startled noise at his sudden lurch forward. He scrambled backwards, long limbs nearly tangling together.

There _was_ fire inside him, as it turned out, but not in the way Floki thought. Athelstan’s throat burned and his stomach cramped and before he could retch the fire out of him a heavy hand grabbed him by the back of the robe. It pulled him to his feet, like a kitten hanging by the scruff of its neck, and yanked him forward. For a moment, his entire field of vision filled with the churning waves below them. He had just enough time to have the panicked thought that he was about to be thrown overboard before he fully caught up to the fact that his body was laid over two solid legs. The heavy hand at his neck was now on his back, holding him steady despite the heaving of the boat beneath them. Athelstan’s stomach wrenched into itself again and he coughed painfully, what little he had in him coming up and over the side of the boat. His throat spasmed, tightened enough to make him choke, and the whole time that hand on his back kept its steady weight.

When he stilled, it lifted. “Better priest?” Leif asked. Athelstan didn’t reply to him, just rested his forehead on the edge of the boat and shivered. Leif chuckled at him, a deep rumble through his chest. It felt like a comfort, and Athelstan melted into it while hating himself for taking any measure of peace from yet another northman. Leif helped him up onto shaking legs, holding him upright with one hand while the other brushed him off. Did these hands kill his brothers? He had no way of knowing. “Over the edge means we don’t have to clean up after you at least. Come now, back to where you were.” He gave a gentle push onto Athelstan’s chest that sent him stumbling back to the mast. He curled up tight, hiding his face against his hands and breathing heavily. That had been his food for the day, too. His stomach growled again, as if it hadn’t just betrayed him the instant they were finally fed.

Beside him, he heard Ealdwine’s voice, nervous again and asking after him, but he was too tired in that moment to respond. Athelstan only shut his eyes, resigned himself to starving until the next day, and tried to make his mind settle into silent prayer to let the hours pass, as he so often had at the monastery. But, before he could let his mind drift to God, there was someone in front of him again, close enough to feel their breath on his face. He opened his eyes to meet Floki’s, only inches away from him. In his hand was another loaf of bread, and Athelstan’s stomach gave a violent lurch just looking at it. He started to shake his head, but long fingers came up to touch his cheek and made him hold still.

“We’re going to try again, priest.” For once his voice was quiet, absent the giggling that had laced through almost everything else he’d said. He settled himself in front of Athelstan again, fingers moving to urge his face up. “Your god must truly have a soft touch,” he continued, and Athelstan watched him reach to his side and come up with a waterskin. “So we’ll try to soften the food as well.”

He poured the water out onto the bread, letting the water saturate through it before tearing off a chunk. He squished it between his fingers, making sure it was spongy and easily chewed before pushing it into Athelstan’s hands. “Eat. Ragnar wants you alive, and after your little display on the beach I think I prefer it that way as well.”

So it was gratitude gaining him all of this special attention after all. Good to know his mistakes were at least endearing enough to keep him alive. Athelstan hesitantly brought the bread up to his mouth. It was softer, at least, and when he swallowed it his stomach still turned over but not so violently as to send it right back up his throat. It was progress. The next piece was pressed into his hands, and he took it gratefully.

“What are you babying the slaves for?” The voice that tore his attention away was rough, unfamiliar, and Athelstan looked up to see that it was another of the rowers that had locked eyes on the both of them. He didn’t know this one - a thicker, older raider with scars across his knuckles and face that spoke to years of fighting. The man swept his eyes up and down Athelstan’s body, then over to Floki. “Let him die if he’s weak, if he can’t survive this he won’t survive what his new master will want from him.”

Floki didn’t even look up from his work of continuing to section out the bread, as if the man speaking were completely beneath his notice. “Mmm, but it’s not up to you if he dies, is it Ebbe? Dead men don’t sell for much, though. Focus on that, if you like. It might make it easier for you to mind your own business and row.”

Ebbe sneered dismissively, directing his glare at Floki now. “You’re one to talk of rowing. Haven’t seen you do a damn thing other than fuck Ragnar. That why he brought you here? That the kinda thing that counts as work for your kind?”

So two men together was not as neutral to the northmen as Floki and Ragnar made it seem, if Ebbe’s tone was anything to go by. A stiffness ran through Floki’s shoulders, and his eyes darted briefly up to stare daggers into Ebbe. Athelstan pulled back into the mast and stilled all of himself, even his breathing, as the two men stared each other down. After a moment, Floki let the carefully sectioned pieces of bread fall into Athelstan’s lap just before he stood to his full height. 

Floki was perhaps only half of Ebbe in width, but here he had the advantage and he loomed over him with a fierce look. When he spoke again, his tone was pure ice, sharp and cutting. “As I said. You should mind your own business. And don’t forget that there are plenty of ways for a man to die at sea.” He finished his words with a short hiss before stalking back to his seat beside Ragnar, dropping bonelessly down next to him with eyes still narrow and glaring.

Beside him, Ebbe cursed under his breath and spat, not out to sea but directly at the monks. Ealdwine jerked closer to him when it hit him, and Athelstan let him mold to his side and stay there, shivering. He tried not to let himself shake in turn. Let the man be angry. It seemed that they were off limits to kill at least, and that meant more than Athelstan could say.

Tomorrow there would be more food. And, if God smiled upon them, maybe they would make it to this Kattegat before any of the Northmen tried to kill each other.


	4. Fears, Doubts, and Cold Comforts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Athelstan thinks through the implications of his situation, tries to protect his brother, and gets a show he absolutely did not ask for. Ragnar does what he can to make it easier.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Specific Content Notes:
> 
> Public sex  
> Perceived threat of rape (no direct threats are made)

The second night brought with it an unexpected silence. Athelstan had gotten used to the constant sound of the oars cutting through water; and the northmen had worked so steadily through the previous night, only pausing long enough to swap out men when exhaustion or hunger started to overwhelm them, that he had expected them to continue through the rest of the journey. But, as the sky dimmed on the second evening, the wind was deemed sufficient to carry them forward and the pace slowed until finally the men stopped altogether.

There was something almost peaceful about how smoothly the work of the day slipped into the idle chatter of weary men. Each found his place on the deck, many stretched out and laying over each other without much care for personal space. Near half of them had set up near Ragnar, some of them whose names he had picked up - Floki of course, Leif, Rollo - and several men he hadn’t quite pinned down yet. And at the center was Ragnar, still the undeclared leader of these ‘equal’ men. He commanded attention, and it seemed that setting up next to him was as good as a declaration of loyalty, the closer the better. Floki was practically right on top of him again, while Rollo had placed himself at a distance, near but not quite part of his brother’s flock. A complicated relationship, then, and one he dearly hoped he wouldn’t end up in the middle of again.

Ebbe, to his relief, was nowhere near the man. He’d set up clear on the other side of the boat, far from Ragnar, and most importantly far from Athelstan or any of his brothers. He was surely not the only danger on this ship, but he was the only one that had made his disdain so clear.

With him at a distance, and the constant background hum of the northmen’s relaxed chatter, Athelstan found himself surprisingly at ease. The conversations overlapped, becoming almost impossible to translate, and the unfamiliar sounds kept his mind clear and calm. He even dared to bring the Gospel of St John into his lap, running a careful finger down the pages of it as he mouthed along to the familiar words. He could have recited each page from memory with ease, but there was comfort in the act of reading, an intimacy with the word of God that wasn’t matched with simple recital.

As he read, he felt Ealdwine’s weight begin to lean on him, lightly at first, and then heavier as the boy fell into sleep, his head on Athelstan’s shoulder and body curled towards him, seeking the comfort of his elder. The others nodded off one by one after him, the exhaustion of their ordeal finally sinking in deep enough to send them to rest. It should have been a comfort, the solid pressure at his side and calm, steady breaths of his youngest brother, the weight of the book in his lap. But, as the northmen followed his brothers to sleep, the silence grew into an even heavier weight, wrapped around him, filled his head with its nothingness until his thoughts began to shout again just to fill the void.

The words before him blurred. For a moment, he didn’t even realize why, not until the first of his tears fell on the page. They came quicker then, overflowing without permission. Tears for his brothers - dead and alive both - and his burned home, for the unknown future ahead of them. Most shameful were the tears he shed purely for himself, even though a man of God should not think of himself, not even in these dark times. It was prideful, against the humility that Father Cuthbert had told him to pray for, only hours before Rollo’s blade took his life. But he couldn’t help it, couldn’t stop it, and trying only made it harder to compose himself.

His fingertips trembled against the gospel’s fragile pages, and it took him a moment to think to shut it before he could further soak the holy scripture or ruin its delicately painted words. He brought it to his chest, wrapped safely in his arms instead, curled his head forward, and forced himself to swallow the sob that threatened to rise in his throat. He could not afford to cry. It would wake Ealdwine for certain, or worse, wake their captors. Even those that hadn’t been cruel to him on the surface weren’t guaranteed to stay that way, and Athelstan had no interest in testing the limits of their patience. His lips moved again, barely able to form around the muttered sounds of the Lord’s prayer; the last defense he had in him against the threat of overwhelming grief. 

He prayed for a distraction, and a distraction he got. Unfortunately, in came in a form so unwanted that he couldn’t help but wonder if it was the devil mocking him more than anything sent by God.

“Ragnar.” Floki’s voice came in a whisper, pitched low, and the hushed tones were enough to cut through the silence of the night. Not enough to wake a man, and no one on the deck stirred at the sound, but it was enough to draw Athelstan’s attention. He curled tighter in on himself, hesitantly raising his head.

Floki sat upright at the steering oar, perched precariously close to the edge of the boat. Rather than pay any actual attention to it, as he’d likely been told to, his eyes were locked on Ragnar. He waited a few silent, expectant seconds for a response. When he didn’t get one, he reached out to tap at his shoulder, looking every inch a dog seeking attention from its master. _“Ragnar.”_

His target let out a good natured grunt but didn’t open his eyes, so the determined pawing intensified until he finally relented and cracked them open, turning his head toward Floki. “What do you want?” he asked, in the tone of a man that already knew the answer. “You’re supposed to be tending our steering.”

Floki giggled in response. “The wind will hold true. We won’t go off course.” He seemed to believe his own excuse too, for he abandoned the steering oar entirely then, clambering forward to drop himself into Ragnar’s lap, nuzzling greedily at his throat. His thighs spread to fit on either side of Ragnar’s waist.

Heat started creeping up through Athelstan’s face as he watched them, realized all at once just where this was leading. Much like on the beach, he could hardly believe what he was witnessing - especially as here they weren’t just in eyesight of the crew but surrounded by them, sleeping men piled within arm’s reach, well within range to hear. One wrong noise could wake them with ease.

It was madness, but as he was rapidly learning, the two of them seemed quite content to be mad together. It certainly seemed that they didn’t care if they could be caught. Floki had begun shifting in Ragnar’s lap. His long limbs wrapped around Ragnar like they were trying to cage him, pulling himself closer to eliminate every small gap between them. He giggled still, interspersed with short, gasping sounds when Ragnar’s hands started to roam, starting at the thighs and moving up to his hips before one disappeared between their bodies, making Floki quiver against him.

He should not watch this. He knew that. When presented with sin and those that would revel in it rather than repent, a godly man would be best served to turn his eye and mind away, sink his thoughts into the word of God, pray for their souls.

Athelstan knew this, but he felt as if he were locked in place all the same. His tense muscles may as well have been iron shackles for all the movement they allowed him. His fingers curled into the cover of the gospel, the leather beneath his fingers his only grounding as he prayed for intervention, for deliverance from the paralysis that had overcome him. But none came, and he could only watch while Ragnar’s hand moved up the thin back, tracing up his spine. He curled it around the back of Floki’s neck, pulling him in sharply.

Their foreheads pressed together, Floki angled his hips closer, and Ragnar paused. Athelstan saw the shift in Ragnar’s face a moment before Floki seemed to come back to himself enough to notice the change in his demeanor. He tilted his head, brought a hand carefully up to Ragnar’s face, making a questioning sound. Ragnar’s fingers tightened against the back of his neck. “You’re sure you want to?” he asked.

“What kind of stupid question…” Floki sat up, straightening his spine to stretch out to his full height, allowing him to look down at Ragnar from his perch in his lap. “You ask that now? Why would I not be sure? I am quite sure and judging from this-” his hips jerked sharply, grinding against something Athelstan did not allow himself to think about. “You are quite sure as well.”

Ragnar sucked in a breath at the movement, held it as his eyes shifted to gaze past Floki’s shoulder. After a moment, the skinny man turned to follow his stare. For one, heart stopping second, Athelstan was certain that they were looking at him, aware he was watching, but… no. No, they looked past him, to the other side of the boat. Where Ebbe slept, if he had to take a guess . He doubted that the clash from that morning had somehow slipped Ragnar’s notice. But he certainly wasn’t about to turn his head to confirm and draw attention to himself.

“…That’s it?” Floki asked, just before turning back. He pressed his forehead back to Ragnar’s, nudging at him until Ragnar looked him in the eyes. “Why would I care what Ebbe thinks?”

“I care more that we have several days left to Kattegat.” As Ragnar spoke, the hand at Floki’s neck moved up to the back of his head, petting him slowly. The other reemerged from between them, settling firmly on Floki’s hip. He squeezed tight, and his fingers had to be digging into bone. “I don’t like how he speaks to you. I’ve killed one man on this journey for disrespect, I don’t want to do another, but I will.”

Floki snorted and shook his head. “You’ll do nothing. I can take care of myself, should he feel the need to push it. But I don’t care what he thinks of me. Or anyone else. Those that hate me for letting you fuck me hated me already.” He pulled away just far enough to kiss Ragnar on the forehead, then went to nip at an ear. Athelstan had to strain to hear him as his voice dropped to a low, rasping whisper. “It won’t affect you, in any case, you know this. The shame they see is all mine. If they wish to challenge me over it, let them. I’ve killed men before who thought me weak, I don’t mind doing so again.”

Ragnar chuckled. “It’s why I like you so much, I suppose.” Tension dissolving, he once again pulled Floki to him with a firm hand. “If it’s what you want, I’ll leave it be. As to what else you want…”

They were done with words it seemed. Athelstan heard leather and cloth moving against each other, then gasps and pants and Floki’s sharp yelps, muffled only when he dug his teeth into Ragnar’s leather clad shoulder. He didn’t let himself watch further, finally found the power to bring his book up before his face like a shield and shut his eyes against the scene before him. 

It did nothing for the sound though. And there was sound. Even muffling themselves, Athelstan could hear their bodies connecting, Floki’s whines and Ragnar’s lower pitched moans. He couldn’t imagine what they were doing, or how the northmen that lay right beside them managed to sleep through it.

It would have been best to keep his face pressed to the gospels and his mind turned to prayer until the sinful display was over with. But Father Cuthbert had once told him that if anything were to damn him it’d be his curiosity, and perhaps that was what was to blame for the fact that he didn’t do what was best. His eyes seemed to move on their own, and he peered over the edge of the book slowly.

Ragnar had Floki pulled tight to his chest, the two so entwined that it immediately conjured up images of ivy growing up the monastery wall, tangled in on itself, twisting and curling and impossible to separate. The moved together in short, almost violent movements. Athelstan couldn’t see where the pleasure could come from in such an act, but they seemed to find it all the same. 

Floki’s pitch rose suddenly, and Ragnar’s grip tightened on him, fingers curling in short hair hard enough that he had to be pulling some of it out. They stilled together, finally quieting. It was over. Athelstan tried not to feel the way his entire body burned as he scanned the other northmen, as well as his brothers. Still asleep, the lot of them. Athelstan envied them - had he been able to sleep before this, he would not have been made party to the sin before him now.

But, for sinners, the two had softened towards each other remarkably fast. Ragnar now had both hands on Floki’s shoulders, pushing gently to straighten him up in his lap. A kiss landed on his lips, his jaw, his neck, each one making the thin man shiver against him. Ragnar paused at his shoulder. Then he glanced up.

Once more, those bright blue eyes had Athelstan pinned fast with their unearthly glow. He had thought them burning before, but now with the unnatural feeling in his body already setting him alight, they plunged him into depths of flame he’d never known before. If a gaze could reduce a man to ash, it would be this one that finished him off, raking over his body with all the weight of the hands that still wandered over Floki’s shivering frame.

_“If he can’t survive this he won’t survive what his new master will want from him.”_

Ebbe’s words rose unbidden in his mind. Athelstan hadn’t known what they meant then, had been too distracted by his stomach and exhaustion to think through the implications of it. Now, though, looking at Ragnar’s eyes, he understood. The understanding didn’t put out the flames, but it did soak him to the core with fear, the chill warring with the heat in his belly, and he could do nothing more than tear his eyes away with a gasp.

The now too familiar sensation of bile starting to rise through his throat made him gag, and he shut his eyes against the tears that started to well up again. He had recognized Ragnar’s gaze for what it was, for the lust and hunger it held, but he had let himself ignore the danger of it. Let Ragnar’s genial cover fool him. Fooled _himself_ into thinking that, whatever thoughts may run through the man’s head, God would never let one of his servants be touched.

But God had not interfered when his brothers were cut down, when Cenwulf was nearly drowned, when the rest of them were bound like livestock and dragged onto the boat under Rollo’s threats to kill them if they didn’t obey. If God’s mercy was nowhere to be found, it was because they had earned his wrath instead. He’d taken his protection, left them to pay the price for their sins.

The sin Athelstan would pay for would be lust it seemed. Inspiring dark thoughts in the northmen, whether he’d intended it or not. Perhaps Ragnar himself would bring down the punishment, or another of them. His new master, whoever that may be. It would not matter, in the end.

He wanted to cry properly now, to scream out his frustrations, but it wouldn’t do anything besides wake his brothers. The thought of having to explain his fears to them was the only thing that could be worse than what he was feeling now, having to tell them it was partially his sin that damned them all. Athelstan sucked in a shuddering breath.

“Priest.”

Ragnar’s voice made his entire body freeze up, made him hold that breath inside him as if he could avoid notice by not moving. The man had approached so easily during the panic, too quiet for someone his size, apparently traversing the scattered, sleeping bodies as easily as if he were crossing clear ground. He could see Floki behind him, watching, perched back on the edge of the boat and alert, though his clothes were still disheveled from their activities, half sagging off of him.

A tremor swept up through him, ruining any chance he had of keeping still any longer. Athelstan curled in on himself tighter and, beside him, Ealdwine stirred. He shut his eyes tightly, hoping with everything he had that the boy would keep sleeping. Whatever happened, whatever Ragnar intended for Athelstan, let him keep sleeping.

Slowly, he let himself release the breath he’d been holding inside. His eyes opened slowly, and he raised them even more slowly, starting at Ragnar’s calves and drawing up his body to those bright blue eyes. Some of the intensity had faded from his gaze, though he still watched Athelstan too closely for comfort. Athelstan couldn’t stop himself from trembling.

He expected to be touched, dragged to his feet and taken to some horrible fate. The crew had not woken for Floki and Ragnar, they would not wake for him - and if they did, it likely wouldn’t matter. When, instead, Ragnar knelt before him to bring himself down to eye level, it felt like a trap, like he would be grabbed and pulled into the man’s grasp, held there like Floki had been not more than a few minutes before.

Ragnar reached out as if to touch him, a careful hand aimed for his shoulder, and Athelstan flinched away from it, pressing back into the wet wood of the mast. There was nowhere to truly escape, but it seemed it didn’t matter. Rather than grab hold of him, the hand froze in place as soon as he pulled back. Ragnar watched him for a moment, then sighed and let his hand fall. 

“You know, when we brought you on the boat, I didn’t think you could get any tenser. It seems I’ve underestimated you, little priest.” He smiled as if it were a joke, and didn’t drop it even when Athelstan didn’t respond to him. He still gave him a moment to answer, though, and when none came, Ragnar leaned in closer, voice lowering. “You’re afraid. And you’re not wrong to be. You’ve reason to be afraid. But not of me. I have no intentions of harming you any further, or letting you be harmed.”

Athelstan had no idea how a man could say such a thing with a straight face after the bloodbath his men had made of Lindisfarne. A part of him wanted to argue, to let out some of the turmoil inside of him, but Ragnar’s patience had to have an end to it and Athelstan was in no place to try to find where that end lay. Instead, he only cleared his throat and tried to steel himself, though when he spoke his voice still shook like the sail in the night wind above him. “You have been watching me since we’ve set off,” he ventured carefully. “I… do not understand your intentions.”

“Of course I’ve watched you.” Ragnar said it like it should have been obvious. “You’re interesting. And very beautiful.” Athelstan drew in a sharp breath then, trying to pull back further, and Ragnar simply sighed again and shook his head. “That’s not something you need to fear. You’re beautiful, but as I said, I will not harm you.”

Athelstan thought of Ebbe’s cruel eyes and shuddered. “Your crew? What about them?”

“Most will not bother you. If anyone does, I will tell them to leave you be. Or Floki will. You’ve not yet seen it, but he’s a fierce thing when he’s angry, and he seems to like you.” He looked back at Floki, still lounged back and watching them, with a quick, affectionate grin. “You will be safe, between the two of us.”

If only it were just himself he worried for. Athelstan looked to his brothers, and Ragnar followed his gaze. His eyes landed on Ealdwine and Athelstan had to swallow down the urge to try to hide his youngest brother from the northman’s eyes. Ragnar looked back to him then, nodded as if in understanding. “I also will not let anyone harm these friends of yours any further. I can’t guarantee anything past the docks of Kattegat, or that they will all survive the cold, but that much I do promise you. And I am a man that keeps his promises. You will learn this, in time.”

Beside him, Ealdwine shifted again, but this time he was not to go right back to sleep. His head lifted a minuscule amount before Athestan could warn him away from the movement. Not a second after his eyes cracked open, he froze in place, and Athelstan didn’t need to look to know he was staring straight at Ragnar, wide eyed like a mouse before a cat. “…Brother Athelstan, what is-”

Ranzar’s gaze shifted to him, and he cut off with a childish squeak. Ragnar watched him, looked him up and down with that fiery stare, before returning it to Athelstan with a warm chuckle. He reached out again, his fingers curled down to show that he wasn’t about to try to grab him. The backs of them nudged lightly against his shoulder. “This one, is he your brother? You behave as if he is yours.”

It was a better reaction than Athelstan could have hoped for, but he still spoke carefully, wary of revealing too much. “They are all my brothers. It’s how monks refer to each other. How others refer to us. We are brothers in Christ.”

“Like shieldbrothers,” Ragnar said easily, and that seemed to be enough to satisfy his curiosity. There would be more questions, Athelstan was sure of it - Ragnar was nothing if not full of questions - but it seemed they were done for the night. Ragnar gave him another gentle nudge. “Tell your brother to sleep, then. There is nothing for him to worry about. Sleep.” He said the words were for Ealdwine, but it was clear from how his eyes never once wavered from Athelstan’s own that they were just as much for him as well.

Ragnar didn’t wait for Athelstan to obey him and translate before standing, stepping carefully around the men again as he made his way back to Floki’s side. The lanky man had sprawled himself out in Ragnar’s absence, and he was soon shifted aside to make room. The motion looked rough, but it only drew another giggle from him, and he sat up to press a poorly aimed kiss to Ragnar’s jaw.

When Athelstan looked to Ealdwine, the younger monk still sat frozen, his only movement a fine tremor that ran through his whole body. “It’s okay,” he said, and tried to believe. “That is their leader, and he says they won’t harm us.”

Ealdwine’s voice shook, just like his body did. “Do you believe them?”

Athelstan wanted to lie to him. Wanted to say yes and ease the panic, give Ealdwine some peace to lull him back to sleep. But he would do him no favors by hiding the truth of it. “…I don’t know yet,” he answered. “But I think we are safe for tonight at least. It is all we have right now.”

Swallowing hard, Ealdwine laid his head back on Athelstan’s shoulder. Pressed back to him, Athelstan could feel his shivering slow, though it never did stop. “I’ll pray tonight. God will protect us, he has to.”

And to that, there was nothing Athelstan could say. Nothing that would improve the situation, in any case. He would not put his own lack of faith on Ealdwine’s shoulders, not while the boy still took some comfort in it. But, watching the two men lounged comfortably at the stern, he could admit to himself alone that the only thing with the power to save them right now was Ragnar himself.


End file.
